


From On High

by theleafpile



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: 3x03, Angel Wings, Dom/sub Undertones, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Season/Series 03, Self-Harm, post 3x02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-15 23:52:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12331335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleafpile/pseuds/theleafpile
Summary: Lucifer, intent on cutting off his wings again, finds himself interrupted.





	1. Chapter 1

_“You should see my ledger,”_ he said to her, once, speaking of all the favors he had done for humans over the years, the repercussions of his actions resulting in one warning cultures around the globe shared:

_Be careful what you wish for._

The warning never applied to him.

Life was his for the taking. All the pleasures humanity had to offer, all those highs… to match all the lows he’d experienced. And he had experienced them all, fallen to the very rock-bottom of the Universe.

After the sixtieth or so person coming to meet with him, to ask him for small things, easy things – connections, a leg up, a leg over, a promise, an opportunity, a fresh start – he finally stood, brushing down the front of his jacket, and announced that any he had not seen were welcome to come back tomorrow evening.

Reluctantly, they turned away, obedient. It made his teeth ache, how easy it was for them to listen to an authoritative voice. He watched them file out as a waitress deposited a glass in his hand. She lingered as he drained it, taking it away as quickly as she had provided it.

He smiled and dismissed her and the bartender for the evening, and they laughed as they walked out together, a “good night, Lucifer,” dropping languidly from their lips.

The door shut, and the televisions and overhead lights shut off, leaving him in the straining light of a few bulbs.

Lucifer stood, listening, in the quiet room. 

He did not like being alone. No part of him craved solitude, that deep silence that only the darkness of space could truly provide. He grew up around rowdy, tumbling siblings and all the chaos they could create. He lived among the warmth and fires of stars, and fell into the roaring abyss. 

He spied the piano, resting quietly in the darkness like a beast, asleep. 

Someone out there, in the restlessness of the city, was taking what was rightfully his. Something he had worked for eons to establish, to perfect. Not just deals, but fear. 

But that wasn’t the worst part.

Lucifer made his way into the elevator, entering his darkened flat. The warm air circled low on the floor like a cat, rubbing against his ankles. Instinctively, he turned toward the bar, then shook his head clear and swerved, bringing a heel to his temple, pressing against the oncoming headache.

With a swift motion, he shrugged out of his jacket, letting it pool onto the floor. He unbuttoned his shirt, easing it off his back.

His back, that was taking longer to heal each time he removed his wings. The wounds closed, the skin pulling itself together soon after he tore it open. But these last few times he could feel the skin stretching tighter, the sinews beneath the skin brittle and snapping like a joint when cracked, only just beneath the skin.

He set his mouth into a firm line, his eyes focused on nothing in particular, and headed into the closet.

He flicked on the light, surprised to see – or, more correctly, not to see – what he had come to expect, the gruesome evidence of his mutilation, of his correcting what was so obviously wrong.

As though it had never happened. As though all his work, his pain, was meaningless.

He shrugged it off, never one to be overly concerned with humanity getting ahold of divinity, and took the dagger out of the box. It seemed to weigh heavier each time.

With a roll of his shoulders his wings popped out, the muscles against his back weak and aching. 

He could almost say, _begging,_ but he would cut off his wings again and again, for the rest of eternity, if only to prove a point.

It was simple enough. He shoved the handle of the blade in the door, the curve like a cup he could rest the wing on with his back pressed against the door, and all he had to do was let himself collapse.

All he had to do was fall.

He pressed the right wing against the curve of the blade, feeling as it already began to sink into the flesh of his back, blood trailing down in rivulets.

He did not hear the soft calling of his name in the night as he pressed further, steeling himself to fall.

A knock on the door, only mostly closed with the blade stuck it, jostled the knife and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out, pushing himself upright. The door opened and he eased his wings back and out of sight, plastering an intrigued smile at the horrifically-timed visitor on his face. The knife clanged to the floor as Chloe popped her head in, taking in the space and his shirtless self.

“Detective!” he cried out, too forcefully cheerful. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at his location behind the door.

He stepped away, careful to keep his back to her, and moved toward the center island. “You break into my flat and ask me what I’m doing?”

She dropped her shoulders, giving him a look as she pushed further in. “You know literally anybody can just walk in here, right?”

“Still qualifies, as you should know.”

“Sure,” she drew out, watching as he grabbed a folded, white undershirt from the island without turning. He frowned at the color, but was unwilling to turn to grab another. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he quickly answered, starting to tug the shirt over his head, hoping she didn’t see the grimace. 

She did, of course.

“Can I help you with something, detective? Isn’t it past your bedtime? Unless you’d like some help falling asleep,” he finished, his dark eyes roaming over her appreciatively. 

“Um, no, thanks.” 

He lifted a hand, directing her out of the room, and followed her to the living area. A quick duck in the bathroom on the way showed the blood blooming on the back of the shirt. 

He held himself stiffly as he gestured toward the bar. “Help yourself,” he said, watching as she pulled out a glass, a wary eye on his posture. He tried to keep himself nonchalant, but his straight back and hands clasped in front of him gave him away.

She poured him a glass as she spoke. “I ran into your brother, at the precinct, after you left me with all the paperwork.”

“We can’t all be powerhouse police officers,” he answered, a placating, close-lipped smile on his face. He was itching for her to leave so he could finish what he started, the small wound still bleeding, and he tried to keep his discomfort off his face.

“Tell me about it,” she joked, walking over and handing him the glass. She slowly walked toward the sofa, eyeing him as he turned on his heel, continually facing her. 

“There’s nobody else here, right?” she asked, stilling and taking another look toward his bedroom. “I’m not interrupting something?” 

A small shake of his head and her eyes focused on him, narrowing. He took a drink, hoping the motion would be enough to dislodge her train of thought. 

She stepped closer, scrutinizing.

“What did my brother have to say?” he asked, raising himself higher as she pushed in. “Something wonderfully banal, I imagine. Man hasn’t had an original thought in a millennia.”

She continued to push in until he took a faltering step back, and in a flash she was around him. He spun on his heel but it was too late. Her eyes widened in concern.

Lucifer kept his mouth shut. She took in a deep breath.

“He said he was concerned about some of your recent behavior.”

“As ever.”

“And that he didn’t agree with what you were doing.”

“Nothing new.”

She wavered, pursing her lips and nodding slightly as she thought. He tilted his head, studying her motions. She finished her drink in one and turned away, setting it on a nearby table. 

“Okay…?” he drew out when she didn’t turn back around. “All’s normal, then. I antagonize my brother, and he goes on about righteousness and other horrifically dull –”

“Not normal,” she answered, cutting him off. She faced him, and he tried to read her features. “None of this is normal, Lucifer.”

“Comes with the territory, I’m afraid.”

The sentence hung in the air like smoke, drifting lazily away from his mouth.

“Are you?” she asked, swallowing.

“Am I…?”

“Afraid?” she asked, her voice small in the wide, empty room. “Is that why,” she started, then rolled her eyes upward, as though that would help.

For once, he was able to follow her line of thinking.

But he did not have an answer.

She returned her eyes to him, standing there, still rigid, in the center of the room. Lucifer could not help but feel naked in the t-shirt, more naked under her gaze than if he had been truly in the nude. He bristled under the scrutiny. “Well, detective,” he started, jostling her from her reprieve, “it’s been lovely, but I am busy, and I would appreciate a warning next time you decide to show up unannounced.”

She nodded, the muscle in her jaw jumping as she clenched it. He had stared down the darkness, demons, and even God himself – but none made his blood jump as much as that little nod and twitch.

“You are…” she breathed, and marched toward him, lifting a finger in defiance. “Incorrigible, insufferable, a complete and utter idiot,” she continued, pushing forward until he was stumbling backwards to the steps, “reckless, short-sighted –”

“Someone’s been chatting up the lieutenant,” he teased, but the words came out sharp and biting. He moved backwards up the stairs. “Finding him interesting? Making your nethers all a-quiver with shop talk?”

“Impulsive,” she continued, unfazed, until the back of his knees hit the bed. She leaned over him as he sat, that damn finger still stuck in the air, berating him like a child. “Incredibly selfish, hedonistic, probably clinically _insane_ –”

By now, he was back on his elbows, all long, lean lines, his dark eyes boring into hers, tight-lipped and holding back a snarl. 

“And also my best friend.”

After a moment, the muscles in his face relaxed, and his gaze darted to her lips. Her breath was heaving in and out of her nose, enraged and worried.

Stalemate. The air changed, warmed in the space between them, the proximity too close.

“Take it off,” she demanded, raising up an inch. He did not move. “Take it off, Lucifer,” she repeated, her voice hoarser than a moment ago.

In a flurry of white, he tugged the shirt over his head, depositing it on the floor. 

He could look nowhere else in the flat but her. There was nothing for him but the endless blue sky of her eyes, so much like the sky he had not seen for centuries, the creamy white cloud of her skin, the brush of golden sun over her shoulder.

He was held, tight and coiled like a spring, ready to move at her direction.

“Show me,” she demanded.

He blinked, feeling his teeth push against one another.

“Now.”

In response, he grabbed her wrist, yanking her closer. She was unfazed, her bones like steel beneath his. Any show of weakness now and it would all be over for him. He needed her to be what he could only show, could only pretend to be as his life shattered around him.

She did not repeat herself.

His grip did not loosen. “I am the Devil,” he reminded her, his words chosen, his voice even. He hoped she would understand. Understand, without him needing to tell her, that he could not give in to her, that he could not be what his Father was trying to mold him into, that he was not this thing before her.

Something inside her flickered, and he knew it was over, then.

He released her, pushing her back. She stumbled a few steps, then whirled around and stomped down the stairs. He heard the elevator doors open and close, and just like that, he was plunged back into silence and darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Lucifer remained leaning back on his elbows, his eyes glazed over as they looked in the direction of the elevator. He couldn’t bring himself to move, to lift himself upright, to do anything but stare blankly at the spot the detective had once occupied.

The rumpled shirt curled around itself on the black marble like a wounded animal, lifeless.

He waited. Waited as the little, light trickle of blood down his back clung to the skin as it trailed down, as the movement of his breath opened and shut the torn flap of skin, as though it could contain all that he ever was. He breathed, and waited.

The bleeding stopped. 

Of course the bleeding stopped. The shred of humanity his Father forced onto Earth and placed directly into the path of his _favorite son_ was now gone. 

Perhaps He knew. He knew who Lucifer was long before he had come to realize it himself, pushing down the disgust he felt by the revelation. He knew that the only human being Lucifer would ever find interesting, worthy of his love or attention or time, would be the only one he could not control. 

The only one he couldn’t have. 

The evening air caressed the bare skin of his chest and he pulled in a deep breath, filling his lungs, closing his eyes.

The wound shut, but he could still feel the ghost of the thin, clean line where he opened himself. He tilted his head side to side, relishing in the sound of joints cracking. It had been a long time since he’d heard such a sound. 

Too long.

He opened his eyes, dragging them upward. They lingered on the glittering chandelier before continuing, to stare directly above him.

He was not looking at the ceiling, but past it. Past the building, the smog, the atmosphere, the dark, the stars. Past the shimmering abyss.

His eyes blazed, not red, but white. 

His Father tried to take away his Hellfire, but He didn’t understand. The Lightbringer did not need the fires of Hell to frighten humans into submission. He did not need the scars, the burns, the grotesque disfigurement. There was only one thing more terrifying than Hell.

His eyes burned, and he pulled them away from the ceiling, staring into his darkened apartment. They continued to blaze with the white fire of Heaven’s divine wrath. 

And he laughed.

 

Chloe lay in bed, deep into the evening, her comforter not living up to its name. She tugged it tighter around herself, avoiding looking at the alarm clock. The winds raged outside her window, the scent of far-away fires pushing smoke into the landscape. 

_He hasn’t been himself_ , Amenadiel had said. 

_I thought you’d think that’s a good thing_ , she said, teasingly. He offered her a weak smile. Then he turned and left. 

Must run in the family. 

 

Lucifer sat at the piano, his fingers brushing over the keys, worn and slick. They lay cool against his fingertips. They had once opened doors inside of him, allowed him to explore that which he did not understand, that which could not be put into words, no matter how much Linda tried to coax them out of him. 

He would make sure those doors were closed, now.

How could someone understand? How could he explain it? How could he put into words the way he knew, instinctively, that he would always be the first to Fall? That he kept the wings for so long, for eons, because he knew he deserved to feel them there, the only part of him untouched by the Fall?

That he knew they were as much of a punishment as the scars?

That it was only when he finally decided he’d had enough of his Father’s punishment that he allowed himself to cut them off? 

How long it had taken to get to a point where he had forgiven himself enough for that.

Apparently, his Father had not.

His wings returning was not a symbol of forgiveness, no matter what his brother suggested. They were a cruel, sick reminder, one that Lucifer knew only he and his Father understood, making the game all that more punishing. 

They returned because he did not deserve forgiveness.

The scars disappearing, after so long relying on them, was punishment as well. He was no longer worthy of being the Lord of Hell. He was no longer worthy of the fear his name evoked. He was this other thing.

Weak.

Mortal, on occasion.

Nearly human.

The last, deep, dying note rung out in the flat. Lucifer hadn’t realized he’d pressed down on the keys, the muscles in his arms tense.

He had been in charge of closed doors for a millennia. It was not only foreign to try and open those within himself, but so obviously wrong. He knew that, now. He understood.

_I’ll be the son you always wanted me to me._

Well, this was it.

His Father designed him to Fall. Designed him to be pathetic.

His Father, it seems, had infinite patience. 

 

Chloe never knew she would be so thankful for paperwork. Leaving Lucifer as she had, alone and bleeding in his apartment, had left a bad taste in her mouth. 

She knew skirted between being that person and being someone else. 

Someone soft, gentle. Someone who bathed Trixie in the sink when she was an infant, marveling at the idea that this entire person was _of her_ , that this little laughing brown-eyed child was hers and never would she ever allow any harm to come to something so precious, innocent. Someone who rested her hand on grieving parents, their skin worn and warm beneath hers. Someone who, after one glass of wine too many, found herself curled in her bed, listening to Eternal Flame and feeling the tears cooling on her pillowcase.

And someone else. Someone hard, punishing. Someone whose fingers were familiar with the cold steel of her gun and the weight of it, familiar on her hip. The sharp, biting sound of a police siren. Someone who could walk into a crime scene and look at someone who was now only skin and blood and bone, no more than a bag of flesh and evidence, and not feel her stomach turn.

It only hurt when she got home.

It hurt when she had to switch between roles. There was always a gap, a fissure in time, when Chloe had to shrug off the day and adapt to being someone’s mom, and until recently, someone’s wife. The time, like a crack in the Earth, waxed and waned. Some nights she slipped into the other persona easily, before she walked in the door, happy to shrug of the weight of the day and relax into her husband’s arms, the familiar routine of making dinner. Some nights it dragged along behind her, and she washed the dishes a little too roughly, chided Trixie for not brushing her teeth a little too harshly, and her child looked at her with the big, brown eyes that were slowly beginning to understand, and Chloe wasn’t sure which hurt more: the fact that her child understood the pain her mother was in, or the way she tried her best to hide her own because of it.

Chloe shuffled a few more pieces of paper into a folder, moving onto the next report. The department was quiet, which was rare. A few of the more seasoned detectives decided to leave their paperwork for when they were fresh in the morning, leaving her behind as they headed together to a bar. 

_Fresh, my ass_ , she thought as they left, knowing they’d be hung over in the morning and spend it hovering over the coffee maker. 

That wasn’t what was bothering her, now.

Lucifer infuriated her.

She meant every word she said to him, but she could not explain to him why. She could not explain that he made her personas clash. That he made her own up to every aspect of her personality at all times.

It was exhausting. 

He forced her to be caring when she wanted to be unfeeling, forced her to be hard when she wanted to give into him and be soft because it would be so easy to be soft, and that was the problem.

She couldn’t figure out how to relax around him. She had no idea how to be herself. How to be both the hard as nails detective and the fun-loving girl she knew she could be. The lover she knew she could be, though - if she were being honest - the one she had never tried to be.

Dan never forced her to be both. He wanted her to be his wife, first and foremost. He interrupted her at work with stolen kisses and talk, not of a case, but of Trixie and their home life. It was easy. Simple. When he was gone, she was the detective. When he was around, she was his wife.

Lucifer never allowed her to be anything lesser, anything but her full self. 

She couldn’t handle it. She couldn’t handle the line between pain and pleasure that he reveled in. Couldn’t take his expectations of her. 

Yet, it was all she craved.

 _Like a drug._

She tucked her chin and smiled coldly at her papers, remembering the first time she’d heard him warn Linda about himself. _Like walking heroin. Very habit forming._

_Rarely ends well._

The smile faded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry its a bit of a bottleneck right now. more to come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> think of this as the opening before 3x03 and into the scene at Lux.

It was not the knock that alerted Maze to someone’s presence at the door, but the sound of her blade cutting through the thin, night air. Chloe had gone to bed, some hours ago, and Maze was walking toward the sound, about to head out for the night.

“Marvelous, you’re still here,” said Lucifer, striding into the apartment as he did every other place: like he owned it.

“Lower your voice,” she warned, throwing a glance over her shoulder. “Humans like to sleep at this time.”

He nodded, an “Ah, yes,” escaping from his lips, enjoying the tone of her voice. He swung her blade around his fingers, and she watched the absent-minded movement.

“What’s up?” she asked, holding out a hand. “I’m going out.”

He took in her outstretched hand, curious. He only then realized he was still holding the blade, and swiftly, he returned it, clenching and unclenching his now empty hand. He looked up the stairs. The unfamiliar silence of a full, yet quiet home greeted him.

A few steps forward and, in a flash he had his arm around her waist, pulling her in close. She exhaled at the movement, with something between a snarl and a smile on her lips, resting the blade just a hair’s width away from his collar. 

“C’mon,” he purred, leaning close. Intoxicatingly close. Her body was already reacting to his proximity, her skin humming, warm and inviting. He pushed against her, slowly walking her backward. “It’s been ages since we’ve had a good shag. Just the two of us.”

She trailed her fingers his lapel, dragging the knife. His eyes flashed down to see the blade on his chest as she bit her bottom lip. Her back met the kitchen counter and she tugged him closer, breathing in the scent of him, familiar and easy. 

Then she paused, remembering all the breakable crap Chloe liked to keep around – and generally frowned upon when Maze, you know. Broke it. 

“Here?” she asked, doubting his sanity. “You want to do that here, now?”

His grip on her waist became tighter, forced and needy. Something she would usually revel in, allow herself to fall into. And yet.

Something about it wasn’t right. 

She pushed him away. “What the hell, Lucifer?”

She caught the flash of a pout at the rejection before he covered it with an inciting, cat-like grin. “Back to mine, then?”

She tossed the knife onto the kitchen counter carelessly and waved him off as she headed toward the door, offering only a shrug. “I was going to Lux anyway. C’mon.”

“Your enthusiasm is infectious, Mazikeen,” he deadpanned, hesitating to follow. 

She turned in the doorway. “You coming?” 

He slid the knife into his pocket, then pushed past her through the door. “You’re going to need that.” 

“Why?” she asked, but his back was already toward her. She shut the door and rushed to keep up.

 

Maze left his side as soon as she spied Linda at the bar, the crowd instinctively parting as she made her way through to meet her. Lucifer smiled appreciatively as he took in the room and the bounty of its occupants: an all-you-could-eat kind of night. He made his way to the piano, hoping that a few hours of drinking would loosen up his demon.

Because he was nothing if not thorough, and his wings hadn’t grown back when Maze cut them off the first time. Perhaps something about a celestial… well, _infernal_ being causing him harm made the wound more permanent.

Besides. There was no _real_ rush. Especially since his back was still sore from the last time. He hadn’t attempted to do more after the detective left, since the small slit was still sending small, sharp pains whenever he twisted or turned a certain way. 

Like a warning.

But he would take it. He would take the agony of removing his wings ten thousand more times. He would take having open wounds for the rest of existence, because – let’s face it – that would be nothing new. 

It was't his Father's forgiveness he wanted. That much was true. 

The invitation of the woman, lying on top of his piano, was making him lose his focus. There was only one thing that needed doing tonight, before he lost his nerve (which he would never, ever admit). He stood, looking around the room, finding the two women at the bar.

“No demons have souls,” he corrected Linda, grabbing a bottle. “That’s why they’re notorious for living in the moment.”

A small reminder. A nudge to the demon that she would never burn in the fires of Hell, no matter what she did. Or may yet do.

After Linda decided to pass out (and he was able to get over the soul-shuddering idea that someone ever uttered the word “coupon” and “Lux” in the same sentence), he turned his attention back to the demon.

“You take it from me, Maze. The best thing to do is always to follow your greatest desire. Burn brighter, Mazikeen.”

She agreed, not catching the manic glitter in his eye, the plans he was forming, the quick turn he made to survey the room when all he really wanted was to pull her upstairs and get the job done.

It wasn’t going to be that easy.

 

They were on the beach, in the dark, alone. 

“How do you feel about a more permanent vacation, Mazikeen?” he’d asked, staring out onto the horizon, where the light from the stars bounced off the waves and he would no longer tell where one ended and the other began.

She shrugged, offering him a drink of the bottle they were sharing. She remained silent, not because she didn’t have an opinion, but because he was the Lord of Hell and she was not about to cloud his judgement with any of her thoughts.

He took a few large swigs of the stuff, then stood, brushing sand off his trousers. “Alright,” he said, unfurling his wings. “Let’s get to it, then.”

She followed suit, taking another swig before dropping the bottle into the sand.

They had spoken of this. Or, at least, Lucifer had spoken of it. For years and years. Every time they came to the surface, watching humanity devour itself little by little, he’s always brought up the idea of staying. Of letting Hell run itself for a while. Of reveling in the debauchery that preceded the torture, if only to get some better understanding of what all the fuss was about.

He paused, looking into her dark eyes, searching. She wasn’t sure what he saw in there. Uncertainty, maybe.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

She tried to make herself look sure, and offered him only one, curt nod. His soldier, forever and forever.

He turned his back to her and sunk to his knees.

When it was over, when her hands were covered in his blood and the sound of his bones cracking under her hands – a sound that once excited her, and now only made her nauseous – echoed in her ears, when she folded the wings over one another and stood, towering over him, she said only two words.

 

_Never again._

 

He turned from her, feeling his skin flush at the memory. It was the first time she’d ever really meant any order that she’d given him. Sure, they played, and she teased by trying to take control or dominate him, but they both always knew who was in charge. Who would always be in charge. 

He craved the real thing.

And he never had any reason to think he’d have to go against her words. Never thought this would ever happen, of all things. Never wanted to taint the memory of the first time she’d had power over him.

“Hey,” she asked, interrupting his train of thought. He turned and she gestured to the bottle he was still holding, lifting her shot glass. “We drinking, or what?”

He smiled, pouring her another drink, hoping she didn’t catch the flush on his chest, his neck. “Whatever you desire.”

The corners of her lips lifted in a smile, and he knew then – he couldn’t ask this of her. 

“Well,” she said, throwing back the shot. “I’ll be damned.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> immediately following 3x03

It was so normal, now, for Chloe to lean into Lucifer as he perched on the edge of her big, comfortable chair in the living area. To have her get his attention by poking him in the leg, and for him to smile down at her and she at him when someone made a joke. For him to refill her glass of wine before his own. For him to catch himself smiling a little too hard, letting his gaze linger on her a little too long after hers returned to the other guests. For him to realize it a moment too late, and after Linda caught his eye with a warm, knowing smile of her own, and he had to look down and clear his throat.

He offered his opinions on some of Maze’s torture tactics, as she told the story of how she traversed Canada to find Ben Rivers, and it was Linda who, after several botched attempts at steering the conversation away from such matters with a child present, finally stood and loudly announced that she needed to use the bathroom, and needed Maze to show her where it was.

Chloe stood instead, setting down her own glass, and ushered both Linda and Trixie out the room, stating she would gladly show her on the way because _someone_ needed to get ready for bed, anyway.

Trixie waved goodbye to Lucifer as he sunk into the newly-freed chair and he weakly lifted a hand in response.

The child beamed, of course. 

He and Maze fell into an uncomfortable, shifting silence.

“You weren’t actually worried about me, were you?” she finally asked. 

“Of course not,” he replied, setting down his glass and crossing his legs. “Nor for Canada. Takes more than one demon to bring a state to its knees.”

“Country,” she corrected, lifting the glass to her lips. “So I’m told.”

He nodded. “In any case. I knew you’d rise to the challenge.”

Trixie’s laugh floated into the room, and as it died, the silence between them remained.

Until they both spoke at once. “What’s your –” Maze began, as Lucifer explained, “My wings are –”

They both stopped, startled into silence.

Maze leaned forward, whispering through clenched teeth. “Your wings are what, Lucifer.”

Linda returned to the room, interrupting their staring with a bit of slurred speech. “Why is it, every time I’m with the two of you, I’m always the one who ends up needing a designated driver?” She grabbed the few glasses from the table, smiling as uprighted herself. “I used to be the good one, you know.”

“Back, Maze. They’re back,” Lucifer continued, unfazed.

Ignored, Linda continued toward the kitchen. But she listened. Her little show, of putting on that she was a little more drunk than she was letting on, was working. Ethical? Nah. But working with the literal, actual Devil tends to redefine one’s ideas of ethics. 

“You burned them,” Maze whispered.

“I know. I was there.”

Linda smiled at Lucifer’s indignant “ow!” that followed his ill-timed sarcasm.

“So?” Maze asked.

“So I know that I can never ask –”

With that, Linda made a show of returning. Lucifer’s tight smile as he looked to her told her more than his words ever could.

“Lucifer, why don’t you walk me out?” she asked, then turned to Maze. “I’m glad you’re back home.”

Maze let the words sink in, warming Linda’s heart. “Me, too.” Then, as if startled, she leapt to her feet. “Okay. I’m going to bed. Jet lag’s a bitch.”

“Vancouver’s in the same time zone,” Linda provided. 

Lucifer watched the demon shake her head, a word on his lips to bring her back, when Linda lightly touched his arm. “Come outside,” she asked, and with a last long look in the direction of the stairs, he followed.

As soon as he shut the front door behind him, Linda leaned in and whispered, “I thought you were going to leave the wings alone.”

He pulled out his silver case of cigarettes, tapping one out, unwilling to provide an answer.

“Aren’t the wings a good thing?” she asked, more softly. “Aren’t they –”

“No,” he interrupted, lighting up. 

“But harming yourself? That can’t be the answer, either.”

“I know. That’s why I was going to ask Maze.”

She closed her eyes, taking in a quick, calming breath. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Then just say what you mean, doctor!” he snapped, flicking a bit of ash into the night. “I’m tired of guessing everyone’s bloody intentions all the time!”

“Including your Fathers.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head and taking a drag. “No, for once, His meaning is quite clear.”

“And it is?”

He opened his mouth to answer – or, more accurately, to not answer – when the door opened. Chloe stood, her expression moving from one of intrigue to concern, taking in the two of them. 

“Chloe,” said Linda, reaching to place her hand on Chloe's forearm. “Walk me out.”

“I thought that’s what I was doing?” asked Lucifer.

“You’re good to drive?” Chloe asked.

“Right as rain,” she quipped, then pulled Chloe alongside her, walking the short distance out of the apartment complex to the parking lot. She threw a quick look over her shoulder to Lucifer, finishing his cigarette, squinting up at the night sky. “I know it’s a lot to ask, and I can’t tell you why,” she began, when Chloe patted her hand and she stopped. 

“Is it about the so-called kidnapping?” 

Linda lifted a shoulder in a half shrug, fishing out her keys. 

“Can’t say, right,” Chloe remembered. She sighed. “Amenadiel said something. Then I caught him, at his place, off guard. He was… bleeding.”

Linda nodded, her gaze somewhere far away. 

“I thought you’d be more surprised,” Chloe said. “But, no. That makes sense.”

“I’m sorry I can’t say more. And it’s not fair to put anything on your shoulders, but since he’s your…” she drew out, thinking, “…friend,” she decided, “I’d just ask that you keep an eye on him.”

Chloe nodded, looking back toward the apartment. “Drive safe.”

 

It was a dumb idea. It was the dumbest idea in the history of ideas, and Chloe Jane Decker had had a lot of bad ideas in her time.

She blamed the two and a half glasses she had of the expensive red wine Lucifer had brought over. 

She returned and beckoned him back inside, asking him to wait as she finished getting Trixie for bed. And the child, the sneaky, devilish, _hellion_ of a child somehow knew what was going on, and cheerfully forfeited the bedtime story (much to Chloe’s shock), opting instead to shut her eyes and pretend to be asleep even before her mother turned out the light.

“I suppose you’d want to be off to bed, then, as well?” Lucifer asked as Chloe shut the door, a bit too eager to leave. 

“That would probably be best,” Chloe said slowly, nodding weakly. Lucifer offered a small smile and headed toward the door. “Lucifer,” she quietly called out behind him, and he paused. “Stay a while.”

He turned, gesturing toward the door. “The club isn’t really going to run itself.”

_And you’re so good at running._

“I know,” she said. “Stay anyway.”

“Alright,” he said, eyeing her suspiciously. 

She steadied herself by moving to the kitchen as he approached, and she busied herself with rinsing out the glasses as he leaned against the back of the couch, watching.

Wordlessly, she finished, then passed him by, heading up the stairs. He tilted his head, his eyes never leaving her. She paused halfway up. 

“You coming?” she asked.

He straightened as soon as the words hit his brain, and in a few steps he was at the step below, eagerly pushing into her personal space. “Why, detective,” he purred, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He rested a hand on the railing, breathing her in and leaning forward, and she took a step back. 

The movement gave him pause, enough for her to speak. 

This was harder than she thought.

“You scared me. The other night.” 

He removed his hand from the railing. She took another step up, as though she were slowly ascending into Heaven. 

Somewhere he could never follow.

He stepped down.

“Stay a while.”

She extended her hand, tilted palm down, for him to take. He let his gaze fall on her hand, then trailing it up her arm to her face, her open expression, her blue eyes, darker in the low light. They held only concern, not fear. 

Perhaps a little hope.

“You don’t even believe me,” he said.

“Then show me.”

Her hand, still extended, shook a little.

He slipped her hand into his, running a thumb over her knuckles, and let her pull him the rest of the way up.


	5. Chapter 5

His heart thrummed beneath his chest with each upward step. His breathing shallowed, puttering around his lungs like an engine unwilling to start. The white walls, covered in photographs and Trixie's drawings, grew closer, pressing against him, reminding him that this was not his world, that he did not belong here...

His hand slipped from her grasp.

Chloe reached the top step and turned in time to see the myriad of expressions flicker across Lucifer’s face, like someone inside him kept changing the channel. 

There was one expression that stood out, as stark and ashen white as snow.

Fear.

His gaze skirted around her feet. 

“Lucifer?” she asked, as soft as air.

He lifted his eyes to her and let out the breath he had been holding, his brow slowly knitting together, as though coming to a realization.

Or a revelation.

“I can’t,” he said, exhaled in a quick breath.

He hit the back wall as he flew down the steps, leaving Chloe in shock.

But not for long. 

She reached the bottom step as he hit the front door, about to throw it open when she threw out a hand, as though she could hold it shut by sheer force of will.

“Stop,” she asked, as loudly as she could in the quiet house.

He wavered in place, unable to remove his hand from the doorknob.

It was her heart’s turn to jump into her throat, pushing the words up and out of her mouth. 

“How long have you been telling me you’re the Devil?” she asked, taking a step forward. He looked over his shoulder, toward the floor. “How many times have you told me you don’t lie?” 

Another step closer.

“How many times have you begged me to listen?”

He looked into her face. She came closer, her hand still outstretched, placating.

“How do you know things before I do?”

He dropped his hand from the handle, turning to face her fully.

“How do you find out what people want, when nothing I do can convince them to say anything?”

She closed the gap between them. Lucifer pressed his back toward the door, unwilling – unable – to believe – 

That she might – 

She let her hand fall back to her side. “I told you that I know who you are,” she said, firmly and deliberately. “So if there is anything. Anything you need to do. I am not the one running.”

The sound of blood, pounding in his ears, blew the rest of the world into a hard, white silence.

“How do you know?” he asked, his voice thick and hoarse. “How do you know, when I don’t?” 

She blinked a few times, that movement he had come to recognize as what she did to steady herself, to convince herself to say what she desperately needed to say.

He pushed himself off the door, swallowing against his fear.

She stayed rooted to the spot as he towered over her, pressing. 

Like a cornered, wounded animal, making itself look bigger.

“I don’t know," she said, as he slowly moved to her side, circling. “I’m not a believer,” she said, turning to speak to her other side as Lucifer moved. “But neither are you.”

He stopped in front of her, the lines of his body rigid, tense.

“You have no faith,” she said, lifting her chin. "For all your talk of God, you don't believe in Him. In any of it."

“No,” he said, running his hands up her arms to her shoulders. “No,” he repeated, gripping the tops of her arms, hard. “I know.”

She set her mouth and looked into his eyes, fearless. Those dark eyes, like caverns.

Pulling.

The darkness echoed. She could hear the deep ache of it, bouncing around in her mind, in her body. Like her soul was being dragged to the surface. Beckoned. Pulled out.

Her lips fell open as Lucifer’s grip on her tightened.

Something was in there, something... bright. A pinpoint of light, growing larger, brighter.

It took over, unfolding inside him, allowing her to see.

Blinding, white, primordial, like the heart of a star. The light of it reflected in her eyes, burning.

She could not look away.

Her hands found their life and she pressed them against Lucifer, who held her onto her tighter. 

She could see, then, the truth of it. Feel his Father’s wrath, the history of it in every moment, like a slowly-moving snapshot of time. Lucifer, so young, so much younger than she could have ever imagined him to be. So bright and trusting, happy and light.

Her hands beat against his chest.

She watched the light turn to gray, tainted. Brother fight brother, father against son, fire against fire. She watched the great, white light fade into a searing, red blackness, felt the flames lick against her skin. 

But not _her_ skin. 

She watched, from behind someone else’s eyes, the rise of humanity. The rise and fall of nations, laid out before her and swept away in oceans of time. She watched people, as solid as ghosts, flutter past, occupying spaces that changed from pasture to city to crumbling ruin. 

All building, rushing, humanity interspersed with unending miles of cracks, of closed doors, of falling ash. The chains, clanging together, the screams...

Her own, maybe, inside her head.

A familiar ocean rose up in her vision and she could smell it, taste the salt sharp on her tongue. She was gasping for breath, gasping as the blood pooled at her feet, running down her back – but it wasn’t her back – no, someone else - 

The drugs, the alcohol, the women flowed like water, in and out, around, breathing in all the darkness humanity had to offer, all the sin and vileness and horrible beauty of it all, eating it, drinking it, the glittering, endless parade of night - 

And she saw herself, standing at the piano, and the world stopped. Her body rushed to catch up, her insides swirling in residual inertia. 

Every time her eyes met his.

Every absent-minded touch of her hand.

Every laugh, every smile, every lingering glance.

Words she didn’t understand. _Miracle. Heaven-sent._

Yet she knew them to be true. Had known her whole life, though she, in her humility, would never, ever say so. Would never admit that she shoved down that little spark of brightness so far into her that it had not seen the light of day in decades, that she told herself she was no one special, that the Earth and stars were like that for every child, that the way she felt things, in her bones, was the same as anyone else.

She could feel her soul being released, inch by inch, back into the center of her being. Could feel herself blinking, the bruises that would surely already be forming beneath Lucifer’s fingertips…

_Lucifer._

She jolted under his hands and he released her. She tried to remember to breathe, steady on her feet only by the grace of God.

The residual light still clouded her vision, leaving the edges blurred, unable to focus on anything but the calming black of his suit jacket. 

Until it was gone.

The cold wind of night blew through the apartment from the open front door, shocking her all the way back into herself.

Little by little, she moved forward and closed the door. Little by little, she returned upstairs. And little by little, she sat in the bed, replaying all that she had seen, all his memories that were now her memories, little by little, until she fell asleep.

 _You require proof,_ he said.

Now she had it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! There's one more after this! I had to drag it along, I know, I'm a torturer.


	6. Chapter 6

Lucifer didn’t go home. 

Or back to Lux, anyway.

For as much as he claimed Earth to be his home, he never felt the surety of it in his core. He never felt that inalienable truth so many humans spoke of when they saw pictures of the Earth from space, in those moments they could see that this was all there was, when they weren’t so wrapped up in the minutia of living. 

He sat on the beach, the sun at his back, watching the light chase the shadows from the footprints in the sand. His gaze was lost somewhere just above the horizon. The thin, clear line between here and there comforted him, as though the Universe were that easy to cut into pieces, as though there were an up and a down, a right and a wrong, an above and below.

There was not. 

The only certainty he ever had of the Universe was the difference between light and dark, and even he had lost that, now.

 

Trixie burst into Maze’s room that morning, bouncing on the bed to awaken the grumbling demon – who, at some point in her existence, had come to expect such intrusions (and, perhaps, look forward to them, but no one knew that under penalty of death).

“What is it?” Maze griped, pulling the cover further over her head, much to the child’s delight as she tried to tear it off her.

“I made you breakfast,” Trixie said. Maze peeked out at the promise of food, and Trixie took the small opening as an invitation to pull the covers aside and crawl underneath with her.

“What’d you make me?” asked Maze. “And where’s your mom?”

The child snuggled closer, never settling into something resembling stillness. It reminded Maze of her own brothers and sisters, writhing together and forever rambunctious, insatiable. “That cereal you got me,” she answered, “and Mom’s asleep. In my room,” she added, in a hoarse, conspiratorial whisper. “I didn’t want to wake her up because maybe I won’t have to go to school.”

“Right on,” said Maze, nodding. After a somewhat-peaceful moment, she shoved the covers away. “Let’s eat.”

Trixie beamed, and led the way.

 

Chloe remained slumped against the side of her daughter’s bed, asleep and dreaming. She crawled into the bedroom sometime in the night, not out of fear or concern, but out of a need for closeness to something pure, something untainted.

Perhaps this was what Lucifer felt like, craving her presence.

The memories that had only flitted by in the moment crashed in waves on her mind, replaying in loops, bleeding together. The heft of a sword in her hand, flaming, ripping through the Universe. The amount of force – surprisingly much more than she had ever imagined – it took to shove a blade deep into someone, and the sickening pop it made as the flesh gave and tore. The crack of dislocating bones, ripped from their sockets – over and over again, her back sore and aching.

She shifted in her sleep, aware on some level of her child’s absence, of her quickly-hushed laughter from the other room and the dampened sound of clanging silverware.

But other memories surfaced too, vying for attention at the forefront. Red hot rage, bleeding from the cracks like magma beneath her skin. Dazzling blackness, and she so unafraid to be swallowed by it, confident that it would bend to her will. Another emotion, later and lasting, of a profound, tender blue, almost ephemeral and fleeting but the most predominant of all.

Loneliness.

That spark Chloe kept hidden for so long floated the surface the longer she dreamed. It pushed against her fears, of being hurt, of being abandoned, of being alone. It rose, healing along the way, all the seams Lucifer had ripped inside her when he showed her more than any human should be allowed to see. 

It understood his recklessness, his surety that showing her so much would make her dissolve. It understood it wasn’t out of malice, but out of a deep-seated need to be found when he was so lost, to be seen when he had been hidden for so long.

No longer.

The light embraced her from the inside out, and she knew what she had always been. What led her to a life of justice, a life where compassion and vengeance went hand-in-hand, where all her smiles and tears and heartache and questioning and searching all made sense, finally. 

She was a miracle. 

Because she was entirely, fully, unassumingly – 

Human.

She awoke.

 

For the first time in her life, she was awake.

 

She stretched, got up, made her daughter a real breakfast, smiled at Maze's insistence that the type sustenance couldn't really be _that_ important, and called the school, letting them know Trixie was going to be a little late today. She showered, dropped her daughter off, and went to work. She laughed at Dan’s terrible pun about avocados and hugged Ella back after she made a minor, off-the-cuff discovery for a case Chloe wasn’t assigned to. She did not look for Lucifer. She knew he wasn’t going to be there.

She knew he would come to her.

 

It took less time than she expected. Only several hours, in fact. She had an uneventful day of paperwork and follow-up interviews, a day where she never needed to pull her gun. She grabbed Trixie after school, and together they went shopping for dinner (Chloe reminding her that greens were an integral part of any person’s diet, if they wanted to continue living past the age of 8 and a half). They ate, settled into a rerun of a Disney show, and Chloe tucked her in. She opted for the story this time. Maze, earlier that morning, had asked Decker not to wait up for her.

A blanket of quiet settled over the apartment, like fresh snow.

She washed a few dishes, brushed her teeth, changed into a worn pair of pajama bottoms and a gray t-shirt, and settled in on the couch with a book, tucking her feet into the cushion beside her.

When the front door opened and shut softly behind him, she did not look up in surprise. She slipped in a bookmark and looked over her shoulder.

Lucifer stood against the door, crumpled into himself, watching her through his lashes.

Wordlessly, she stood. With a tilt of her head, she beckoned him to follow her up the stairs. It took a small smile when she reached the first landing to convince him to move.

 

She had settled onto the bed when he entered the room, watching her movements. In a small motion, she beckoned for him to shut the door and join her. 

He opened his mouth to speak, and she lifted a hand. 

_Do not be afraid._

He sat, and she placed her palm to his cheek. He leaned into the touch instinctively, and she knew he was feeling what she had felt, beside her sleeping child. Like being washed clean.

She ran her hand down his back, over his scars.

But they were scarred no longer.

With a small, thoughtful nod, Lucifer gently unfurled the wings. They overtook the bed and most of the room. 

She ran her fingers through the closest feathers, the longest few that rested on the comforter. They shone, illuminated with a soft, cold light. 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he said.

"Me neither," she said. She caressed another feather, able to feel the life pulsing beneath it. "Now isn't that divine?"

He studied her face, his eyes dropping to her softly smiling lips. "That's it," he said, a light, teasing tone in his voice. "You've completely lost your mind."

"Yeah," she exhaled, dropping her hand. "You're probably right."

He smiled, something like hope shining behind his eyes, and closed the space between them.


End file.
